Chapter 356: The Gathering [III]

The silence lingered after the word

uncle

.

It didn’t break. It didn’t soften. It simply stayed there, heavy and cold, pressing down between the three of them as snow continued to fall, thicker now, gathering on stone and shoulders alike. Valttair didn’t respond. Armand didn’t either. For a moment, it felt as if the entire courtyard had narrowed to that single space, the rest of the world pushed far enough away not to matter.

Trafalgar felt his breath steady.

A memory surfaced, uninvited but clear.

I did well in adopting you.

Valttair had said it long ago. When Trafalgar had revealed his talent. When there had been no witnesses, no reason to perform, no audience to convince. The words had slipped out naturally, almost carelessly. At the time, Trafalgar hadn’t known what to do with them. He had buried them under everything else.

Now, after his conversation with Rhosyn, they came back sharp and unmistakable.

He didn’t wait for either of them to speak.

"Lord Valttair," Trafalgar said, his voice calm, grounded. "When I showed you my talent, you said something. You probably didn’t mean to." He paused briefly, then continued. "You said you had done well in adopting me."

The words hung between them.

"I’ve always felt different from the rest of my brothers and sisters," Trafalgar went on. "I was called a bastard. I was treated like one." His jaw tightened slightly. "And for a long time, I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to be."

He lifted his gaze, meeting Valttair’s eyes directly.

"I called you father once," he said. "Because those words slipped out of my mind. Because it was easier to forget them." His voice didn’t waver. "But now... it makes sense."

The tension sharpened, stretched thin, like ice under too much weight—one wrong step away from cracking.

Trafalgar stood his ground.

There was no anger in his voice. No accusation. Just truth, laid bare without ornament or retreat.

Trafalgar hesitated.

Not because he was afraid—fuck no. It was that brief moment when you know that once the words leave your mouth, there’s no taking them back. He clenched his jaw, felt the cold bite deeper into his lungs, and decided he didn’t care anymore.

"I want answers," he said. "About my father."

The air tightened.

Then he said the name.

"Magnus du Morgain."

It hit like a thrown blade.

"He was your brother," Trafalgar continued, eyes locked on Valttair. "Like Mordrek. Like Seradra. He was your son too, Grandfather." His voice stayed steady, but there was something sharp underneath it. "And I don’t know a damn thing about him. I think I deserve to."

Valttair didn’t explode.

That was the first wrong thing.

He didn’t get angry. He didn’t shut him down. He didn’t look at him like a tool that had overstepped its place.

Instead, his face twisted.

Not with rage—but with something close to anguish.

And that fucked Trafalgar up.

He had never seen that expression on Valttair. Not once. Not ever. This was the man who treated wives, children, and blood like pieces on a board. Cold. Efficient. Untouchable.

So why the hell did he look like that now?

Armand reacted too. His expression shifted, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he spoke.

"Yes," Armand said. "You’re just like Magnus."

Trafalgar stiffened.

"Black hair," Armand went on. "Dark blue eyes." His gaze stayed fixed on him. "You’re his image, Trafalgar. The spitting image."

Valttair didn’t interrupt.

Armand turned his head slightly toward him. "You can tell him," he said. "The boy’s already been through enough shit."

Silence slammed down again.

Trafalgar stared at Valttair.

This was the man who never hesitated. Never wavered. Never showed a crack. And now—

’Why the fuck aren’t you angry?’

’Why aren’t you yelling?’

’Why do you look like you actually feel something?’

The contradiction threw him off balance harder than any scream would have.

Valttair stood there, silent, eyes fixed on him with something dangerously close to emotion behind them.

And for the first time since stepping into Morgain Castle, Trafalgar had no idea what was coming next.

Valttair exhaled once. Then whatever had surfaced vanished. His posture straightened, his expression smoothing back into the familiar mask Trafalgar had known all his life—the one carved from control and distance, from a mind that never lingered on things it didn’t intend to use.

"We’ll have a long conversation," Valttair said at last. His voice was even again. "About your father. About your real father." He paused, just enough to make the words register. "But not now."

Trafalgar didn’t argue. He already knew what was coming next.

"First," Valttair continued, turning slightly, "we deal with the war."

Armand nodded beside him. "House Morgain is in," he said simply. "Everything went according to your plan."

Valttair inclined his head. "And you played your part in the Council, Father. As expected."

That caught Trafalgar’s attention.

He glanced at Armand, his thoughts tightening. Council of Sages. One of the eight great families, and yet Armand sat among them. Morgain blood inside a body meant to be impartial. How had that been allowed? How long had it been like that?

’This wasn’t recent,’ Trafalgar realized. ’This was old. Planned. Buried deep enough that no one questioned it anymore.’

And the fact that the other families tolerated it?

That raised even more questions.

But not now.

He understood what Valttair was doing. The conversation about Magnus wasn’t over—it was postponed. Set aside like everything else that didn’t serve the immediate goal.

House first. Always.

The Morgain were entering the war.

That alone would shake the continent. It would be news whispered in courts and shouted in war councils. And Trafalgar knew—knew—what came after that.

The war between Sylvanel and Thal’zar wouldn’t drag on much longer.

He had seen it.

Void creatures tearing through the field.

Bodies piled where armies had stood.

Blue fire burning where it shouldn’t exist.

And himself, standing in the middle of it.

Because no matter how much he hated it, no matter how hard he pushed back against the idea—

His path was already written.

Trafalgar clenched his jaw.

He hated that more than anything.

But destiny didn’t care.